


Fragility Is A Given

by ancientgarbage



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Humanstuck, I'll add more tags as this continues!, M/M, Transstuck, feel free to suggest characters as well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 13:49:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3770584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancientgarbage/pseuds/ancientgarbage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You think you might miss him, honestly. You’re so glad to finally be going home, it’s been so long since you’ve seen this dingy apartment, since you’ve eaten a good meal with your Bro, but you really think you’re going to miss him.</p><p>No, fuck that. You know you’re going to miss him, and it scares you knowing you may never see him again.</p><p> </p><p>Or, Dave Strider is sent to the hospital for back surgery due to his chronic back pain and meets a chronically ill patient named Karkat Vantas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragility Is A Given

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not so good at keeping up with long stories like this, but I decided it was time to step out of my comfort zone. I don't know if I'll finish this, but if people like it, I just might!

You think you might miss him, honestly. You’re so glad to finally be going home, it’s been so long since you’ve seen this dingy apartment, since you’ve eaten a good meal with your Bro, but you really think you’re going to miss him.

No, fuck that. You know you’re going to miss him, and it scares you knowing you may never see him again.

But we’re all getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s go back to the beginning.

* * *

The hospital is cold and sterile. You’ve always hated hospitals, probably from all the times you’ve been sent to them, whether from mishaps strifing or your back issues. It’s your back this time, they’re checking out your spine, discussing getting you a back brace or something, you’re not really listening. The doctors are insufferable and the nurses, with their tired smiles and crisp uniforms, are all a blur. You just sit on the stiff bed (would it kill them to get comfier mattresses?), staring out the door as Bro chats with the doctor.

There’s a curtain separating you from the other occupant in the room. It’s not uncommon, and more often than not you prefer not to engage, but over the chatter of Bro and the doctor, the shuffling of nurses outside the door, you hear the distinct beep beep of a heart monitor. You shouldn’t be surprised, but there you are, wondering if you should take the risk of pulling the curtain back.

Your name is Dave Strider, you are currently in Skaia Hospital for acute back pain, you are fifteen years old, and you’re very curious about your roommate.

He was there before you arrived — at least, you’re assuming they’re a ‘he’. You don’t think the doctors would stick you in a room with a girl. Safety precautions and all that. So the possible guy was here before you arrived, and judging by the heart monitor he’s either gotten out of surgery or it’s something worse altogether. Or maybe both. You’re itching to find out.

“Alright, lil man. Docs say you’ll be here for a while. Gonna see what they can do about that busted up back of yours. I gotta head to work, but I’ll be here tomorrow morning.”

You nod and he grasps your hand, squeezing it. You squeeze back and hope the pain killers they gave you start kicking in soon because you can tell by the way Bro’s eyebrows are furrowed that he’s worried about you. You don’t want him to worried about you. He has more than enough to worry about as it is.

And then he’s gone. The doctor smiles at you as he walks out, checking over his clipboard. Finally, it’s just you and your mysterious roommate. You lean over, gasping as pain shoots up your back, but you grit your teeth and will yourself to reach the curtain. You grasp the flimsy blue material in your pale hands and pull it back.

There on the bed is a teenager. A boy, like you guessed it, with sickly looking tan freckled skin, full lashes, a mop of messy dark hair atop his head. His eyes look sunken in, and though he has a few pounds on him, it’s clear to you that he’s lost a lot of weight. He looks uncomfortable, like he’s in pain even in his sleep. How long’s he been here? But he’s sleeping and you don’t want to wake him up. He looks fucking awful. The heart monitor beep beeps almost unsteadily. Anxiety stabs at your gut and you’re left wondering what on earth happened to him to make him end up here in such a state.

Those lashes flutter and you’re so glad they let you keep your shades on because your eyes widen behind the lenses when you see the boy open his eyes and you’re greeted with the oddest red-auburn eyes you’ve ever seen. Odd in a good way, though. They start off red in the center then deepen, crackling off towards the edges in auburn. His brows furrow and he squints up at the ceiling. The blinds on the window aren’t drawn and orange-red light of the sunset pours into the room, streaking across his bed. You wish you could get up and shut off the lights, shut the blinds, but you can’t. You’re in too much pain and you don’t want to get up any time soon, not until these pain killers kick in.

“Hey,” you murmur, leaning back against the pillows, head lolled back to watch him.

His breath hitches and his eyes dart to you, narrowing as he takes in the sight of you. You know you look tired as fuck (it’s nothing compared to how he looks, though. You don’t know how long he’s been asleep but it looks like he hasn’t gotten any, if those deep bags under his eyes are any indication) and your platinum blond hair and too-pale skin is enough to catch anyone’s attention. Your appearance has always been a cause for discussion, teasing, bullying. That’s why your Bro started training you in the first place, so you could defend yourself. You’re pretty good, if you do say so yourself, when your useless back doesn’t get in the way.

He doesn’t question any of this, though. All he says is, “how long’ve you been watching me?” His voice is a little raspy, oddly ... feminine? Not overly so, but he’s either not gone through puberty yet or it’s something you know quite well. No need to jump to conclusions, though.

“Not long. What’s your name?”

He raises an eyebrow, as if to say ‘what the fuck’s it to you? Leave me alone.’ “Why?”

“I figure since we’ll be roommates for a while it wouldn’t kill either of us to get acquainted, yeah? Yeah. Name’s Dave Strider.” You grin a little, gesturing for him to go next.

He just stares at you for a few moments, his eyelids lowering that for a second you think he’s going to fall right back asleep. But then he says, “Karkat Vantas,” and his face contorts in pain and he’s struggling to sit up as he coughs into his sleeve. Your grin immediately disappears and you sit up slightly, clutching your sheets as you watch him cough and hack. The heart monitor beeps erratically. You’re not sure what to do. There’s nothing you can do.

A nurse rushes in, a styrofoam cup of water in hand, and she helps Karkat into a sitting position, rubbing his back, telling him to drink water. He manages after a few tries, the water soothing whatever was irritating his throat. The heart monitor goes back to its slightly irregular beep beeps and he leans heavily against the pillows the nurse props up for him.

“I’ll leave this here,” she says, placing the cup on the side table. Karkat says nothing. He just lays there, taking shallow breaths, those red-auburn eyes glistening with unshed tears as he watches you. The nurse checks the heart monitor, checks the IV you just now realize is connected to his wrist, along with two other tubes, and hands him what you assume to be an inhaler.

Anxiety kicks at your stomach again and you remember exactly why you hate hospitals so much.

The nurse, deeming everything fine, gives a small smile to Karkat as he makes her way to your bed. She asks you if the pain killers have started kicking in and you nod, numbly, not really paying attention to her. Your gaze is still locked with Karkat’s, despite the fact that he can’t even see your eyes. The nurse leaves and you want to ask so, so many questions. Is he okay, what does he have, how long has he been here, how old is he, is he going to be okay — but all you manage is, “that was a pretty nasty cough, dude.” You want to slap yourself in the face.

He actually laughs, weak and strained, and it delves into harsh coughs, but nowhere near as bad as it was moments before. He brings the inhaler to his lips, breathing in the medicine.

“It’s so fucking fun, feeling like you’re suffocating,” he says, leaning over to place the inhaler on the side table and grabbing the cup of water, settling back against the pillows as he takes small sips. “I fucking hate it here.”

The last thing is said more to himself than you and you think maybe he just wanted someone to talk at. You wonder if he’s had many roommates before, or none at all. You really wonder what he has and if he’s going to be okay and jesus fuck, he looks so tiny lying in that bed, was he that tiny before? It’s like that whole coughing fit drained all his energy too because as his chest rises and falls unsteadily, his shoulders are slumped and he practically sinks into the pillows. You try real fucking hard to keep your facade up, to make sure none of the worry you’re feeling seeps into your expression. You’re so glad for these shades.

He closes his eyes but he isn’t asleep. You take a quiet breath, force yourself to let go of the sheets (you were holding them so tightly your hands ache in time with your heartbeat).

“You an’ me both.”

“Oh yeah? And what brings you here, Mr. Dave Fucking Strider?” His voice just keeps getting quieter and you’re not sure you’ll be able to hear him if he speaks any lower. His throat must hurt, you think. You wish you could do something aside from just staring at him and making small talk.

“Acute back pain. It’s a pain in the ass. Might have to get surgery.” You’re careful to make sure your voice doesn’t shake on the last sentence. The last thing you want is to go into surgery, but you also don’t want to make it seem like a big deal. You don’t want to be the center of attention when clearly this kid has it way worse than you ever will.

“That sucks,” he murmurs. His voice doesn’t get any quieter so you don’t have to lean over to hear him, thank god. His fingers tap against the cup a bit, nails digging into the styrofoam, like he wants to tear it to shreds but he’s too weak. He seems to have a permanent unhappy expression on his face and you wonder which caused it, the hospital or his illness? “Surgery is scary.”

Great.

“But you’ll probably be fine.”

Probably? Apparently you actually said that because his shoulders give a little shake as if he’s laughing and his mouth quirks into what could be a smile. Maybe he’s had surgery before. Maybe he’s had a lot of surgeries before. Your mind is running away from you, coming up with all sorts of possible illnesses as the clock on the wall tick tocks along. You always seem to find yourself focusing on a clock to keep you steady, grounded, too bad it doesn’t do much to ease your anxiety swirling around your chest and stomach like a pack of angry bees. You need to fucking relax.

“Probably,” he repeats. He drinks the last of the water, his grip loosening on the cup. It falls out of his hands, onto the bed, but he doesn’t notice. He’s asleep. The heart monitor still beats a bit unevenly, his breathing isn’t as steady as it could be. You see years of exhaustion on his face. He doesn’t look peaceful when he sleeps. He looks sad and even smaller and maybe a little bit scared. There are still tears gathered in the corners of his eyes from earlier. Some weird part of you wants to go over there and wipe his eyes, but that’s a fucking stupid idea. What’s going on with you, getting all emotional and worried and weird-thinking over a guy you just met, a guy you know nothing about?

You take off your shades and rub your eyes, the sudden change in light hurting a little. You place your shades on the side table and sink slowly under the thin covers. You stare at the wall, at Karkat, until your eyelids grow heavy and whatever else the doctors gave you before kicks in, sending you off to sleep.

 


End file.
